Sacred Mundane: The Blog

The song began to play and I knew I had to leave.

I was sitting on a couch, snuggled under a blanket singing worship songs while looking out over the most breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean through a two-story wall of windows.   A women’s retreat. We were having our time of worship, I was warm and content, happy thinking of all the things God was doing, sipping my warm coffee, singing Alleluia.

But then I heard that first note, sat down my coffee cup, walked to the back, back behind the stairs, bowed on my face before God. And wept.

Sara.

The cold stone floor against my forehead, she swept over me.  And I remembered all over again how God had ministered to me over and over again …

Dance for Sara.

I’ve written about it before, but I was gripped by it again today, so I’d be honored if you’d take the time to read.  I’d be even more honored if you’d join me, in whatever way you’re called, to dance for Sara throughout all your days.

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October 2008.

This morning was our last morning at Foothills, our home church for the last 15 months, where Jeff has been working.  The end of the service was powerful, but probably in a different way for me than anyone else.  Pastor Dale was talking about changed lives and the power of God and gave a powerful presentation called Cardboard Testimonies.  He had a few dozen people take turns walking across the stage silent, each holding a huge cardboard sign.  On one side was the “before”-who they were.  And then one by one each person flipped their sign and revealed the “after”-what God had done in their lives.  Survival from cancer, restored marriages, children to barren wombs, freedom from addictions of every kind.  It was truly powerful.

But what had me weeping like a baby was the song.

The worship team began to play “Who Am I?” by Casting Crowns and I knew I was going to crumble.  All at once, thoughts of Sara washed over me.  Sara was a friend, a beautiful, humble, gifted, vibrant, enthusiastic woman of God just a year younger than me who was killed a year and a half ago in a tragic car accident.  During my years in Corvallis, doing the drama ministry, Sara led the dance portion of each year’s play.  We worked together, coordinating songs, praying, and dancing together. My favorite memory is of the two of us dancing to Amazing Grace in the living room of my little apartment in Southtown.

But “Who Am I” was the song where I danced in her place.  In Tilly, the last spring drama I was in, Sara danced to this incredible song with two other girls.  That play will always stay with me, as the most powerfully emotional drama experience of my life.  During a later encore performance, Sara was on a dance tour and unable to be there.  What would we do without her?  She was the lead dancer.  But Sara insisted, the show must go on.

So I danced in her place.

I will never be even a fraction of the dancer that Sara was, in fact we had to change the choreography because I couldn’t even do some of the moves she did!  But I danced with all my heart, in my own unique way but also honoring the dance that she had choreographed in her heart.

In my own imperfect way, I danced for the Lord, and for her.

And now, every time I hear that song, the memory haunts me.  I think of Sara.  Of her amazing life of 25 years, cut so short.  And I look up to God and say, “Who am I?” Why do I get to stay here, experience marriage, experience the inexpressible joy of my children, of being a mommy, a wife?  The joy of life.  I know that Sara now has more joy than I could imagine, but I still break down when I think of her, and think, “Why am I still here and she is not?  Why am I left here to dance this life, when she danced so much better?!”  I’m sure she’d laugh at my thinking, but it’s still how I feel.

And as I looked at the cardboard signs, of the miracles God has done to save lives, I couldn’t help but ask Him, “Why not hers, God?  Why not hers?”  And of course there is a reason far above my own reasons, and God in His infinite love and wisdom knows.  But I still ache when I think of her family, of the empty place she left.

But just like 3 ½ years ago, I know Sara would insist, the show must go on.  And just like I did 3 ½ years ago, I’ll dance in her place as best as I can.  I will never have the talent, vibrancy, enthusiasm, or contagious joy that she had, but as best as I can I will dance as she would, with joy and love and a single-minded devotion to Christ.  Though maybe not literally dancing, I will live and love my husband and children the way that she would have if she had been given the chance.  I will seek to love my Savior the way she did so powerfully here on earth.

A few weeks ago Jeff and I saw We Are Marshall, the excellent movie based on the true story of the tragic 1971 airline crash that killed 52 football players, coaches, and fans from Marshall University.  Afterwards, the football program shuts down, since not only does no one want to continue on without the beloved players and coaches but also because they don’t even have the talent to continue playing football with any level of competitiveness.  How can they honor the memory of their teammates by playing and never winning a game?  The assistant coach, who survived, sums up the feeling when he insists, “We’re not honoring them by losing.  We’re disgracing them.”  But they continue on. They play with all their heart, even though they don’t have the talent, even though they only win one game that season, they continue on, playing to honor the beloved coaches and teammates who were killed that horrible day.

When Sara was killed, I wondered if the dance ministry there in Corvallis could even go on. I wondered if the drama ministry could even go on.  But it has been a blessing to see, that just as Sara would want it, it has gone on.  The very girls who were trained under Sara rose up and have chosen to dance in her place, to honor her by doing what she loved most, even if none of us will ever be the amazing dancer and woman that she was.  I just heard of a Bible study taking place where one of Sara’s close friends is now teaching and discipling the girls Sara taught at a local dance academy.  Sara had shown them Jesus, and now they want more.

And as I think about all these things, I begin to realize we all play a part of dancing for Sara.  The way we live, love, dance, and worship our Savior carries on Sara’s memory.  We honor her by the way we live.

In our own imperfect way, we dance for the Lord, and for Sara.

Will you join me?

Twice this week I heard stories of fame’s deadly grip.  First, a friend, who has another friend in the throes of a tragic situation. The essence of the tragedy? Fame.  Someone’s fame so twisting their mind and perspective that their reality is warped. And everyone around them loses.

Then tonight Jeff and I watched Walk the Line, the true life story of Johnny Cash and June Carter.  It was fascinating, and there’s a scene in there I can’t wait to write about, but overall it’s just so so sad. Fame, the addiction to fame, leads to the addiction to drugs, to self, to whatever it takes to keep that flame of fame alive. And even though there’s a supposed happy ending, and Johnny and June live happily every after, there’s still a string of brokenness left behind.  Of failed marriages and scarred children.  Of distrust and dishonesty. It’s horrible.

It’s our world.

What’s interesting is that the turning point of the story in Walk the Line comes when Johnny begins to read the letters from prison inmates who have been so impacted by his songs. By him entering into their reality (and holding up the yellow water that they drink), he–in a sense–brings them hope.

He brings them hope by singing their song, giving voice where theirs is gone.

Only then does fame’s death-grip begin to lessen.  Why? Because he’s no longer using the people  to feed himself, he’s using his talent to feed the people.  That is, to give them a voice, a glimmer of hope, if even for a moment.

How much more do we have to offer, those of us who carry the glorious gospel?!  But we don’t have to be a rock star to be tempted by these same things. The moment we begin to use people for our own needs rather than use our energy to serve is the moment we abandon true ministry and begin the thirst for fame. We might not call it fame because none of us are aspiring to be rock stars, but it’s fame all the same any time we’re thirsting for self over thirsting for God.

This week my friend said, “Fame changes people.”  And I know that she’s right. It’s pride. It’s self. It’s all the things that seduced the serpent of old, the things that enticed our first parents in the garden.

“Be like God…”

That was the lie.

That’s fame’s lie. It’s simply a desire to set ourselves up as little gods.  Fame, pride, idolatry. It’s all the same and it’s all from hell.

How’s this for a nice fun Friday post?  Aren’t you ready to go plant some flowers and celebrate spring?!

Yes, let’s do those things. Let’s celebrate His creation and every morning put our face to the floor and recognize the one and only Famous One,

“Yes, LORD, walking in your ways … Your name and renown are the desire of our hearts.” Isaiah 26:8

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Happy Friday. Tomorrow week’s end with thanks …

Thanks for reading.